


Cuts

by Spiffing



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:57:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiffing/pseuds/Spiffing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That night, after being rained down with booing at the 2012 Paralympic Games, George Osborne couldn't sleep. He begins doubting if it was all worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cuts

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before that incident where Osborne teared up at Thatcher's funeral. It's been sitting in my hard drive and I had forgotten about it until I saw the man cry. So, here it is.

He was awake. His eyes are wide opened, blinking occasionally as they remained fixed, staring up at the bleak ceiling in the darkness. It could have been seconds but it could have easily been hours of him simply unmoving, tense. His ears caught on the soft, calm breathing beside him. He has tried but failed to pull his own to match. The sounds of the city were close, yet quieter. Much, much quieter than before at least; making it easier to relax. But empty. Even as he lay in company, he felt terribly alone, isolated. His mind simply floated, vague thoughts, some forbidden, swimming around helplessly. Tonight supplied no clarity in the form of logic. With tomorrow fast approaching, tomorrow would not be a brand new day.

He glanced at the ticking reminder of what is to come. His breath quickened as his heart felt heavier. Tomorrow came much too soon after all. He shuddered before closing his eyes. He tried to push away the thoughts and the complicated feelings. He tried to gain some sleep for in sleep he will gain strength and strength is all he truly needed to face the new day.

But sleep did not come. Instead, his mind once again took him back many hours before, to the moment he heard his name announced, followed by the magnified waves of displeasure and mockery, pounding against his drums. It took him by surprise. And as he looked up, he saw the noise’s image reflect its shadow down upon him, towering with equal strength of spite and rigor.

They surrounded him, trapping him, suffocating him. Even though he knew why their distaste packed their punch, he could not and would not do a thing to stop them. The crimes that stained his name, while he had tried his best to undo the damage inflicted by the government before, were impacting people’s daily lives even more than before. His plans to stimulate growth, backed by renowned and expert Economists around the world as well as the Prime Minister himself, weren't working. They failed him and in turn he failed everyone else. For his plans to not work, it began to challenge what he had thought was right, for the political ideologies he stood for, throwing into the realm of confusion and indecision. He has never been so unsure nor felt his confidence wearing, thinner than his normal minimal, in his life.

He deserves their criticism, their jeers, and so much more. He didn't enter politics expecting to be popular all of a sudden. He knew that entering politics he was to be judged by his policies, decisions and his past and present, and not who and what type of a person he is. He also knew that many did not like his policies nor agrees with his politics. He had simply not expected the booing then and there, a setting away from politics; a setting where it was about the celebration of the athletics and the winners in the Paralympic Games. It had been silly to think that that moment would be an exception from their distaste.

The booing was plain rude. It was the wrong place and time to do it. He even began to doubt that many of them knew why they were booing him- and it is that that made it hurt even more. They were booing for the sake of booing and they were booing because it’s _him_.

Immediately after thinking this, immediately as the booing had come, a nervous bubble of laughter left his lips, awkward, uncomfortable and pained. But then, it died as quickly as it came. Laughing them off, he knew, would only encourage them on. So he swallowed thickly, his face flushing a slight pink. He felt his shoulders slump, him wanting to crawl under something and hide. Though he didn't do any of those things; he forced himself to still and stay standing, upright. He didn't run and hide. He kept his face pleasant as practiced because at that moment he couldn't explain and answer questions, couldn't do a thing, because it was the wrong atmosphere and the wrong place. It simply was not the place.

He remained rooted to the floor, waiting. He tried to convince himself that it was nothing personal, their disapproval, while deep inside him he slowly died. He then jerkily reminded himself that this moment wasn't supposed to be about politics. The booing had a time and place, but certainly not here. Here was about awarding the Olympians for their achievement and he was one of the people invited to help hand out the medals for this event. He’s here now. He wasn't going to back out on a promise due to discomfort. He was not going to feed the trolls. He was going to see this through.

Calm breaths, back straight, confident strides, handling the medals, firm hand shakes, and cheerful words of congratulations, he played the thick skinned politician well against the contrast of so many scrutinising down at him, judging and ridiculing him, and many more doing the same behind screens. He continued standing tall as the Tunisia national anthem simply washed over him; the echoes of laughter and jeers of distaste still ringing in his ears.

He shook his head of the humiliating, helpless, and guilt evoking memory. His long fingers came up, crawling at his eyelids, trying to get rid of them. Rolling onto his stomach away from the warmth, his face was pressed into the pillow as a small cry of anguish dragged out of his throat before it cut it short, his palms pressed firmly against his traitorous lips. He forced the feelings away. This isn't the first time he has done that. Last night wasn't the first time he felt so low either. Why was it so damn hard to keep these feelings away? Why did it have to affect him this much?

From the corner of his eyes, he saw her shift in her sleep, but thankfully she didn't wake.

He sighed. His cheek remained pressed against the pillow, his eyes taking in the sight of the brilliant woman sleeping peacefully beside him, who still stood by his side even with all that was going on. He began wondering miserably. What was the point of doing what he was doing when he was being given all the wrong advice? What was the point of producing new plans when half the plan gets replaced, making the plans ineffective and useless? What was the point in doing anything when there wasn’t a clear cut consensus on what this coalition government aimed to do? Why did there had to be secrecy, twisting people into a double bind situations, when they were all working towards the same cause; which is do what’s best for Britain? What was the point of him if nothing he did made a positive difference to those who need it most? What was the point of him doing anything at all if nothing and everything he does is wrong? He just couldn't win.

If only he had known what the state of the economy he inherited was, he would have resigned after his first year. If he had known, how much it would affect him, he wouldn't have entered politics at all and would have had another go at journalism. But someone had to be the head of the political section of the research department. Someone had to be Hague’s political secretary. Someone had to step up to be the new Conservative candidate for Tatton. Someone had to fill in to be the Shadow Chief Secretary to the Treasury. Someone had to campaign for Cameron, to become the shadow Chancellor and then now the Chancellor. And it had to be someone would have to deal with the deficit and debt the country has, and balancing the books. It just happened to be him.

But surely he could have prevented the abuse his children had to be faced with at school from the parents of the other children. Surely Frances would be bothered, even annoyed, with people trying to grab sound bites from her on what she thought of her husband, rather than her work, whenever she went out. He wondered; would they have been better off if he never accepted the job? Would he have been able to live with himself if he hadn't?

He tore his eyes away from Frances and was met with the sight of time ticking away. With reluctance, he slid out of the bed, careful not to wake Frances, before forcing himself to stand and move towards the bathroom. There, he stood, infront of the mirror, staring at the face he has been stuck with from the moment he was alive, with a smile that could easily be interpreted as a smirk, a frown could swiftly be mistaken for a scowl. With a nose that has suffered many unexpected and forceful meetings with hard flat surfaces, with a more or less of a plump but tall build, and skin that was much too pale, it didn't take much more to appear arrogant and upper class, even though he didn't feel anything like that. It was the face that did not appeal to the general public at all. It is a face the country loved to hate. He definitely couldn't win.

He scoffed when he was realised his eyes had adverted away from the mirror. Even he couldn't stand looking at his face.

Distractedly, he began taking care of the stubble, his mind wandering off to ponder on the reactions the cabinet reshuffle would present. A drag too deep caused George to yelp and pull the razor back. His eyes darted up to his reflection and he watched as the blood oozed down his cheek. The trail paused at the edge of his jaw before a large singular droplet fell, landing on the white ceramic floor. His gaze stayed as another droplet fell into the first, creating a small pool of bright red.

He was thoughtful as he absentmindedly admired the colour. He hasn't accidentally cut himself for a while and the sting and the pain brought from one cut bloomed that forgotten physical pain it brought. That is what the people of this country are feeling constantly but heavier, when taxes and cost of living rise higher, and pensions, benefits, and funding are being cut; constant and agonising pain, grief and torment, unable to cope with the pressures. How much more did they have to suffer? How much longer did they have to deal with it?

His eyes slowly glanced contemplating over his thin pale wrist. Life ran through those veins, like the life running through those people who are suffering. To cut them would be a disaster as evident in the distress and hate last night, a sample of the larger population of those doing it hard. The pain may not be the same as a cut to the cheek for that is temporary, but they both share the same signals at one given time. Clearly, as many have commented before, he did not understand just how much pain they were in. The cut on his face wasn't half as deep enough as the cuts he had condemned on the people. If he could be in their position for just one minute, then perhaps he would understand just how much pain there was in experiencing a cut, and an epiphany would somehow come to mind. Or maybe simply end it all so the rest of the world didn't need to deal with him anymore, so he wouldn't be able to do more harm since anything he does is wrong. And this, _this_ could finally be him doing the _right_ thing at last...

Just as he shifted his grip on the razor, something stopped him from bringing it down. He looked at the object in his right hand to see another hand, smaller, smoother, wrapped around his right wrist, stopping him from committing death upon himself. He frowned, his head snapping up to the image in the mirror and to his surprise he saw Frances standing at his elbow, holding him back. He hadn't heard her come in. Her face was set, lips pressed tightly together. There were tears in her eyes that refused to fall, eyes that were hard as steel. He found he couldn't meet her eyes either, his gaze dropping to the sink. 

“Let go,” he whispered, his voice sounding scratchy from disuse.

Frances didn't say anything. She didn't move. He cleared his throat awkwardly. He watched as she swallowed thickly before clenching her jaw a few times. 

“Not unless you let it go first,” she finally said, strong and unwavering.

He closed his eyes, sighing softly.

“Frances...” he plead quietly.

Frances shook her head firmly.

“I _won’t_ allow it, George,” Frances said forcefully, her tone sharp, cutting through the fog within his mind. “I won’t allow you to throw your life away.”

George’s eyes snapped opened then; wide, unsure and somewhat blurry. He blinked before he dragged his eyes up to meet her eyes, but it remained difficult to look her in the eyes when she was still looking at him with such intensity. So, his eyes fell on her chin instead. He eventually let Frances take the razor out of his hand. He watched as it was placed on the table by the sink, but then it was taken up again, placed back in the cabinet, away from his reach and sight, away from harm’s way.

“I-I wasn't- I wasn't going to _kill_ myself...” George said as he chucked uncomfortably, trying to come across as having thought the idea as one of absurdness and had been the furthest thing from his mind.

He feebly hoped she would let what she almost saw slide.

Obviously, knowing Frances, that wouldn't have been the case. Her eyes snapped back onto him, still holding that same intensity that bore right to the core of his very being.

“Of course you weren't,” Frances said tightly, unconvinced.

George’s eyes adverted to the ground. He ceased pretending that nothing had happened, that he hadn’t thought of killing himself, because he knew Frances could see right through him. It didn’t help that the blood was still on the floor, drying up at the brightness of the artificial lighting and the cold chilling morning air. He decided to remain silent. She didn’t need to know anymore than she does. He didn't want to burden her more than he already has.

“George, look at me.”

He stayed motionless, afraid to see her seeing him less of a man, afraid of another round rejection- and this time coming from someone closer to him, which could potentially hurt even more.

Abruptly, her hand darted out, snatching his chin between crooked finger and thumb, before pulling his face up so that they were eye to eye. George winced. She held his chin so tightly, George was sure she was going to leave a bruise. He immediately saw the hurt and concern behind the thin layer of strength in her eyes. He instantly felt guilty for having been the cause for it. He didn’t like hurting her at all. He didn’t like hurting anyone to be honest.

“George Gideon Oliver Osborne,” Frances said, serious and determined. “You are loved. By your children. By friends and family. And above all, by me. Nothing you say or do will change that because we know you the real you.”

George, his pale face flushed in warmth, blinked a few times at that. She let his chin go and regarded him a moment longer. He watched as the sternest ebbed away somewhat. Her hand moved slowly but surely to his head, her long fingers carding through his hair. His eyes fluttering closed at the contact and found himself lean into the touch. A few seconds later felt his body begin to relax ever so slightly.

“You are a silly man sometimes; proud and headstrong,” Frances said gentler, her hand leaving his hair, moving to lie gently above where his heart was.

He reopened his eyes, and tilted his head to the side, slowly taking in her body language from toe to head and the expression on her face once again. He was not at all surprised at how perceptive she was. They have, after all, been married for almost fifteen years. Of course, that didn’t mean they could read each other’s minds but they knew each other well enough to know something was troubling the other.

“But your heart’s in the right place,” she continued, her hand remaining above his beating heart a moment longer. “While every now and then, your ideas aren’t... Well...”

As Frances tried to search for the right word, George smiled wryly in understanding, his eyes brightening ever so slightly.

“Don’t turn out as great as my signature fish stew?” George offered, joking lightly.

Frances gave a small amused smile of her own, eyes twinkling in the light. 

“Yes. Even if that is the case sometimes, we know that you mean well,” Frances continued. “You just need a moment to centre yourself, to clear your head. A small reminder that it isn’t the end of the world. Always remember, we’re here for you. _I’m_ here for you.”

She brought her hands up to his shoulders. They simply stared into each other’s eyes for a moment. Frances was once again contemplative while George was still somewhat unsure, before Frances pulled him into a firm hug. George resisted at first, yet then he frowned as realisation hit him. Her words warmed him, reminded him, that he wasn’t alone. Not really. There was still at least someone who didn’t confuse his politics with who he is. Even after everything, she still loves him for _him_.

George finally gave in, wrapping his arms around her, hiding his face in the crook of her neck. He agreed that he is a silly man indeed as the relief rolled through him, making it almost hard to breathe. He felt himself begin to tremble as the tide of pent up emotions began to re-emerge, to be seen at long last. He tried to hold it back, keep it for later when he was alone. However, when he tried that, he felt himself choking up.

At once, he tried to pull away and push Frances out of the bathroom, to distance her from him because, really, he felt it was silly to weep and also embarrassing for those present to watch. But Frances held onto him, preventing him from suffering alone, letting him know it was okay, that there was nothing to be ashamed of, thus leaving him no choice but to cry it out. Even as he sobbed messily, she still didn’t let him go, didn’t speak, but simply held him. For that, he was forever thankful. Her support meant everything to him.

When the tide subsided and the feelings that had been pushed away, and had weighed him down for quite some time, were wrenched out from him, he found himself feeling a bit better but also very tired and exhausted. Cleaning themselves up, Frances lead a sleepy and therefore somewhat adorably clumsy George back into the bedroom and under the covers of their bed. George unashamedly remained attached to Frances side as she caressed his head. At last, he drifted to sleep, snoozing peacefully for the remaining hours until it was necessary to wake up to go to work.

There was nothing much he could do but to remain if he was made to stay as Chancellor after the reshuffle. To leave now would be a disgrace and that did not mean the blame would disappear, nor the problems that the country was still left with would disappear. It also would disappoint David greatly. If George was anything, he wasn’t a coward. He was determined to finish what he had started, his promises. He is going to see this through, he was going to set things right, and he didn’t need to worry about others being confused with who he is and what he does, because at the end of the day, he knows who he is and he knows what he is doing, and with the support of family, friends, colleagues, and those who understand him, he need not be upset when others allow themselves be swept up by misleading headlines and hacks making false claims about him.


End file.
